


Parting Gift

by IntrovertedWife



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: All characters - Freeform, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cute, Funny, Gift, Goodbye, Goofy - Freeform, Sad, Stolen Moments, Sweet, conclusion, present, yao guia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-12 17:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5673853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntrovertedWife/pseuds/IntrovertedWife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After finishing what she set out to do, the Sole Survivor sends a gift to each of the companions, one last goodbye. Gives an ending to the game and each of the companions.</p><p>Some angsty stuff to flush out the relationship with all the companions and give them a little ending note. Assumes a Railroad ending as the Sole Survivor finds she can no longer face the looming threat of the Brotherhood retaliation nor the crater where her son used to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. MacCready

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGoat/gifts), [kelseyr713](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelseyr713/gifts).



Ten packages wrapped in scrapped paper sat upon the table, as nondescript as she could make them given the limited resources. The courier gulped as she turned back on him. "You have your instructions," she said, the power to crumble nations almost dragging him to his knees.

"Yes, yep, uh, ma'am," he bobbed his head; a shaking hand rattling the paper.

One of those fancy floating robots from before the war rolled towards her, tissues stuck in two of its three hands. "Oh mum, does it have to be now?"

She turned away from the courier as he began to stuff each of the packages into his bag. "Codsworth, I need you to be strong for me."

"Of course, mum!" its voice snapped, then the robot saluted with two of the hankies. "But I still wish that--"

"I know," she interrupted, her stone face softening for a moment at the robot's blubbering, "but you're needed here, now more than ever. There are more and more people moving through every day. People that need help, your help. It's your job to keep account of their needs."

The robot sniffled, drifting closer to her, "I shall shine their shoes and place a hearty breakfast on the table every morning for them."

"Er, good. That's good." Then she reached out and scooped the robot into a strange half hug. A rash of embarrassment clawed up the courier's cheeks and he turned away to watch the sky.

A cacophony shattered the air above Sanctuary Hills, and the courier ducked below the roof's overhang anticipating a fresh rad-storm. While the wind pressed down upon his body, dragging him towards the dirt, no lightning hissed against green clouds. The sky remained a cheerful blue blanketed only by a single black shadow zipping through the clouds. She released her hug on the robot and gripped her hat tighter to her head. Her eyes watched the flying monster, nodding softly to herself as it descended to land upon a stripped foundation.

"What is that?" the courier cried while pointing at the blades whipping across the top of the metal bird.

She smiled, a pang of regret and reluctance marring the beauty, "My ride."

 

* * *

 

Mags was on point tonight, her latest song riling up the increasing crowds in Goodneighbor. The town was getting so thick with dang near respectables, MacCready figured he'd be needing to hit the road soon. No one wanted to make room for a mercenary at their business table, unless they needed the competition to wake up with some new bullet holes. But for now at least the Third Rail had a roof, passable beer, and he was easy to find here should someone come calling again.

He leaned back in his seat, hands stretching behind his head, and watched the pair of wastelanders dive into a blotted argument with Charlie about the radroaches scuttling across the bar. Some people were just too picky.

"Excuse me, are you MacCready?"

"Who's asking?" MacCready twisted around to look up the stairs at the greenest kid he'd seen since Little Lamplight. Nah, even there six year olds had more gravitas than this guy. This one reminded him of that radio kid they helped toughen up; all elbows, no grease.

"I was asked to deliver this to you!" the kid's voice cracked as he thrust out a small box towards the mercenary. Its edges were worn down and frayed, dirt and Commonwealth branch muck spackling in the gaps. Someone took the time to cover the box in paper and wrapped that up with salvaged string.

"They did? Who did?" MacCready continued, eyeing up the box with suspicion and not about to accept anything. No one just gave something in this world without expecting equal or better in return.

"She, um, she said you'd know once you open it. Please," the kid continued, waving the box in his face.

MacCready rolled his eyes and lifted the package out of the courier's hands. It could be a bomb. Wouldn't put it past a few other Gunners to track him down. But the kid looked like he was about to piss his pants in terror just being in Goodneighbor - his eyes widening at the sight of a couple ghouls getting real neighborly in the back corner. Doubtful the Gunners would risk wasting more than a single bullet on this kid, much less all the tech for a bomb. MacCready ran his fingers across the box, surprised by how light it was. Seemed unlikely anyone could plant a mine that weightless and get any payload out of it. Reaching into his back pocket, he unearthed a blade. The courier yelped from the glint of the edge -- a crimson stain clinging to the knife -- but MacCready only put it to the string. Ripping away the paper, he folded the remains into his pocket for kindling later and opened the box.

"Oh, sh-..." the curse died in his throat while his fingers reached inside to bat away at wadded remains of old Boston Bugles. A teddy bear smiled up at him, the fur pristine -- as if someone took the time to wash and comb it. But what caught him and almost drew a sob to his throat was the book clutched in the bear's hands.

The words "You're Special" were emblazoned on the front cover, a baby giving the thumbs up out of a basinet. Even after 200 and some years, the colors were surprisingly crisp. No one got the chance to read the book to anyone, war and assholes robbing her of the opportunity. Dangling off the edge was a small strip of paper. MacCready found himself blinking through an unexpected fog to read the inscription written in a tight hand. "For Duncan."

"Sir," the courier spoke, "Are you all right?"

"What?" MacCready twisted his head around, but he couldn't shake the bittersweet smile. He knew what this gift meant. Everything had once again changed, the world never stayed stable long, but in his heart he knew what he needed to do. "Yeah, yeah, I'm good. Great even. For the first time in awhile. Thanks, kid."

He slipped the book back into the box and closed it up tight. Gathering up what little of the stuff he had left, MacCready moved to the bar. "Hey, Whitechapel."

"Oi, whatcha want?"

"Give me my tab."

The robot's eyestalks rolled towards the merc, "What? All of it? That'll take a few days to calculate. Are you leaving us again?"

"Yeah," MacCready dipped his head down, his tears of joy hidden by the brim of the cap, "I need to be getting back to DC."


	2. Hancock

"People aren't happy about all the synths moving through the streets," Fahrenheit tapped her finger against the cabinet, trying to draw his attention. All it did was increase the machining in the back of his temples. Whoever laced that Jet with turpentine was going to find himself waking up with a bed full of radroaches - if he woke up.

"And what am I supposed to do about it?" Hancock asked. His back was turned to her as he leaned out of the balcony watching a few of his citizens get into a good old fashioned bar brawl below the Old State House. He had five to one odds with his guards on the small one. Never discount a scrapper.

Fahrenheit rolled her eyes, now banging both fists against the rotted wood, "Ban the synths. No one likes 'em around. It's got everything on edge."

"Humph," Hancock snorted, unable to enjoy the fight with mayoral shit hanging over his head.

"Um, beg your pardon, but I'm looking for a Mayor Hancock." A new voice drifted across the threshold, one of those uncorrupted ones the Commonwealth somehow hadn't broken yet.

Hancock turned around and smiled, "That's me, in the flesh. For now."

"You," the kid stuttered, his eyes widening in terror, "you're a...a..."

"I believe the word you're looking for is ghoul, soft skin," Hancock said lighting his cigarette.

"What business do you have with the Mayor? Unless it's important, I suggest you leave before you find you can't."

The kid gulped as Hancock's bodyguard rounded on him, but the ghoul strode over to pat him on the shoulder, "Now, now, down girl. Save the teeth for when the real shit walks through the door. No reason to go giving the fish here a heart attack." He turned to the kid's watery eyes and asked, "You got a poison of choice?"

"N...n...no," the wet blanket rattled his head like a bloatfly flew in his ear, terrified to accept and also decline. "I'm supposed to deliver this, to you." He held out a brown package to the ghoul. The mayor grabbed it without ceremony.

Hancock stuck his cigarette in his mouth and moved towards his desk with the package in both hands. Sadly, the courier's relief was short lived as Fahrenheit rounded on him. Grabbing tight to his collar, she yanked the kid's face to hers and demanded, "What's in that?!"

"I don't know."

"We weren't scheduled to receive any deliveries."

"I don't know anything about that, either," the kid continued.

Hancock glanced up from his gift and sighed, "Let the kid be. He ain't done a thing."

"I'd advise against opening that, least until we know where it comes from," his bodyguard continued. It'd probably be wise to listen to her. Then again, Hancock wasn't known around these parts for his wisdom.

"We know where it comes from, it's..." Hancock paused and pointed at the kid.

"Uh, George."

"George? Good name there, George. See, comes from George. It's all good." Slicing open the string and the paper, Hancock snuffed out his cigarette in a coffee cup full of butts. Before Fahrenheit or anyone else could object, he ripped back the box's top and reached inside. Only a thin sheet of paper sat at the bottom. Lifting it up to the waning light, a mirelurk caught in Hancock's throat as he read the first words scrawled across the page.

"We the people, in order to form a more perfect union..." His fingers moved to the margins, attempting to preserve and take in every word written over 400 years ago by a bunch of guys just trying to do what they thought was right. Hancock's eyes lingered across the signature big enough to spit in the king's eye.

"How did she...?" he asked himself, shaking his head at the enormity of the gift as well as the message.

"Mayor?" Fahrenheit asked, her fingers still around the kid's shoulder.

Hancock didn't look up, his black eyes still crawling across every word demanding freedom from tyranny and a right to live their own lives. "Did she say anything about where...nah, of course she wouldn't." Laying the Declaration gently across his desk he finally turned to the kid and smiled, "Thanks for this. Take whatever you want from the stash." He gestured to the piles of chems littering the coffee table. George bobbed his head and slid over, his fingers hovering just above things his mother probably warned him away from.

After scooping up whatever tripped his trigger, the courier vanished, the stairs creaking with his feather weight. Fahrenheit inched closer to her boss, trying to read upside down whatever fascinated him. "What's that all about?"

"A reminder," Hancock said, a wry smile twisting up his lipless mouth.

"Of what?"

"To stop running," he chuckled. His finger circled around the signature when his head snapped up to her, "About the synths..."

"Yes," Fahrenheit cracked her knuckles, preparing for retaliation.

"Let the people know that all are welcome in Goodneighbor, even if they ain't technically people. The Institute's gone, these guys are trying to make it same as the rest of us. They deserve a bit of peace for once."

"Sir...?" Fahrenheit dropped back. She disagreed with him, but he knew she'd still follow the orders.

"'Of the people, for the people,'" Hancock repeated, sliding back to the balcony. His eyes drifted across every inch of Goodneighbor as another idea percolated in his brain, "And get in contact with the Minutemen. They've got settlements near here that could use some supplying, I bet. Kleo's overstocked as it is with pistols from the fucking Institute."

"What'll we ask for them?"

"Free of charge," Hancock grinned, "'cept then they'll owe us a favor."

Fahrenheit shook her head, "They'll never buy it. Not with your name attached, or Goodneighbor for that matter."

Hancock folded his arms against his chest, his fingers rolling against the old costume. "Then say they're in memory of Shaun. Preston'll know what it means."

"Fine, though it's fucking stupid," Fahrenheit sighed, stepping away to follow his orders. She may talk shit to his face, but she was great at doing what she was told. Below him, the bar fight broke up - both combatants who tried to make hamburger out of each other now hugging and offering to buy the other drinks. That was the Goodneighbor way.

 


	3. Preston

"We should fortify the wall against raiders, at least something temporary until the General gets back. Then she'll say what to do." Preston yanked off his militia hat to try and wipe some of the sweat off his brow. All was impossible in this heat. After placing it back, he reached for his laser musket only to remember he sat it down on the table along with the other weapons. It still felt strange to not need it always within a finger's grasp, to not be on the run.

The other Minutemen marched off, their orders in hand. They'd been staring at the hole in the Castle wall for what felt like months. With the Institute truly gone it seemed like for once they had time to tackle repairs, both major and minor.

"Preston, this kid here's looking for ya," Ronnie Shaw's ragged voice broke through his reverie. He turned around to watch the young man approach with knees wobbling. Dressed in the wasteland caravan uniform of mismatched scraps and with only a hunting rifle across one arm, he seemed an unlikely addition to the Minutemen.

"Of course. What is it, son?" Preston asked.

"I have to deliver this to you," he said, thrusting a brown box into Preston's hands.

"Ah," Preston tore into the package without concern, "these must be the new shells we arranged to get from Bunker Hill." His trail of thought drained away as he plucked not iron or gun powder from the box but blue fabric. A tricorner hat sat atop the coat, brown leather worn at the edges. Below the frock was the chest piece, a fresh coat of paint bringing out the white star. Preston's fingers trembled above the uniform for the General of the Minutemen, afraid to touch it as if it were cursed. "Why do you have this?" he asked the courier.

"I don't know, sir. I was only told to deliver it," he said, his eyes dancing across every turret in the Castle.

Preston picked at the collar of the coat, trying to lay it back down, when his fingers unearthed a scrap of paper. It advertised that racetrack for robots, but on the back was a single sentence written in a careful hand: "Leaders are made, not born."

"No," he shook his head, trying to thrust the package back at the courier, "no, I cannot accept this. It isn't right, it shouldn't be me..."

"I'm sorry, Sir. I can't return it," the courier said, trying to disagree in the most respectful way imaginable.

A pang broke across Preston's chest at the unspoken implication. "Then she's...I had hoped."

"What's the matter, Preston?" Ronnie spoke, patting the butt of her gun.

For a moment he almost voiced what he realized this gift meant, that oblivion awaited the Minutemen. There was no future, could be no future, not without someone to lead them. His fingers curled across the paper and he smiled remembering when they stormed the racetrack together and took out the raiders that'd set up shop. She left him to clean it up and establish a basecamp for settlers moving through. He told her he wasn't a leader, didn't think he had the skill. Even though she'd leave him at the Castle for weeks, even a month, running things for the Minutemen - he felt secure knowing she'd return and take back the reins. Now...

Preston pulled off his hat, the brim crusted in filth that would never break off. It was a good hat, had served him well from Quincy to Lexington and then refuge in Sanctuary Hills. Before he trusted her, before they took back the Castle and rebuilt the Minutemen. But it wasn't needed anymore. They needed something more from him, something better. Sliding his old hat under his arm, Preston lifted up the leather of the tricorner and dropped it upon his brow. The coat fit snuggly under his arms, but the chest draped as if it was meant for him.

He looked down at the uniform shielding his body. He'd thrown her into it without giving her much of a chance to say no, it only seemed fair she do the same to him. "Tell the men," Preston spoke, his eyes turning up to Ronnie, "the General has arrived."

"About damn time," Ronnie said. Then she saluted and added, "sir!"

Preston smiled grimly, aware of the weight placed upon his shoulders. Turning back to the gaping wall, his voice rose with a power he never knew himself capable of. "You, realign your bricks. There's a gap large enough for a Deathclaw to sneak through. I expect to see this wall fixed before sundown tomorrow. And we should re-enforce the armory. Has anyone seen the last squadron sent out to the Sunshine Co-op?"


	4. Cait

Three chairs crashed through the gap in the floorboards, shattering on impact at the ghoul's feet. He adjusted the blonde wig on his head and glared up at his accomplice, "You could have warned me."

"Hey, things that go up still fall down," Cait said, snickering at her hard work. Tommy only sighed, shoving a broom in vague sweeping motions to gather up the wood they'd chuck onto the fire later. Why she'd agreed to clean up this dump was anyone's guess, but it kept her from thinking too long and exhausted at night. It'd be ages before they'd wipe away all the raider blood.

Wood scraping across metal drew the attention of the only two people in the Combat Zone as sun broke through the opening front door. The fat arse adjusted his cheap suit, trying to tug it into place. Most people lost weight when they went ghoul, but not good ol' Tommy. Somehow he piled it on, more every year. Cait could almost respect it if she didn't have to get around his wide load to haul out dead bodies.

Tommy stepped away from the bar to greet the new customer. "I'm sorry, but the Combat Zone is still closed while we undergo renovations."

"Shit, is that what I'm doing?" Cait shouted before chucking a table off the platform walkway. Tommy only glared at her interruption, but the new guy jumped clean out of his boots. His baby face whipped up and down, and he damn near paled at the corpse pile Cait spent all of yesterday building.

"I...I'm not here for the, uh, fighting," the kid said, trying to yank his collar down.

"Good, because there ain't any," Cait called down, her hands cupped around her mouth for emphasis. She smiled at the uneasy turn of the kid's mouth and dropped to sit on the walkway, her legs dangling off the edge as she watched him approach Tommy.

"This is the Combat Zone?" the kid asked, his eyes zipping around like a bloodbug to take in every inch of what true combat looked like.

"The one and only," Tommy spoke, his bloodshot eyes darting up to his only remaining star. Cait knew the look: 'What the fuck is going on?' She leaned back, enjoying the show.

"I was asked to find a woman here, name of Cait," the kid said.

"Aye, that'd be me," she jabbed a thumb at her chest and, without any ceremony, launched herself off the catwalk. Momentum drove her ankle deep into the broken pile of wood, but Cait shrugged it off with a laugh. The kid looked like he walked into a Deathclaw nest, his eyes bulging from her move. "So, ya found me. What ya be wantin?"

"Oh, I, uh, that is..." he fished a box out of the canvas bag across his chest and held it towards her, "this is for you."

Cait eyed it up, then turned to the cram faced kid, "No offense kid, but ya ain't got the stones to handle me."

"That isn't what I. I mean, I was hired to deliver it, to you. Here," his words rose higher with each syllable until ending in a squeak.

She shrugged at Tommy, but the ghoul wasn't in no mood to fight with her on it. No one ever delivered anything to Cait, certainly nothing she didn't have to fork over caps for. Grabbing the box from the kid, Cait broke the string with her bare hand and ripped into the box like it was a fancy snack cake.

"Uh, you might want to be careful..." the kid tried to interrupt, but Cait shook him off.

"Oi, what's this then?" she asked, lifting a piece of paper up out of the box.

Tommy rolled his eyes, the lack of eyebrows not deterring him, "Try reading it."

"Smart arse," she muttered. Twisting the tiny words towards the stage lights, Cait spotted her name - all of it - and a bunch of gobbledygook about where she belonged, to who, and for how long. "This is...are you fucking with me?" she shouted, shaking the paper in the courier's face.

"No, ma'am. I...I'd never. I, um...help!" he twisted to the ghoul.

Cait did as well, her forehead burrowing in confusion. "It's my bleedin' contract. What's it doing in this box? Why's it sent to me? I thought you gave this to...shit. Shit!"

Tommy bent the contract around so he could read it in full, "Looks like she signed it over to you."

"Meaning...?" Cait blinked, her brain trying to catch up, "meaning, it's mine now. I'm mine?"

Nodding his head at understanding dawning across Cait's face, Tommy smiled. The patronization wasn't lost on Cait, who socked him in the arm - her knuckles sinking deep into the flayed tissue. "Don't go acting like a right, know-it-all fuckhead about it. Ain't no way you saw this coming."

"Actually, she made a deposit in your name some time ago. Purchased stock in the Combat Zone to be turned over to you. Welcome to a proper business partnership," Tommy said.

Cait snorted, unable to believe it. She'd been passed from hand to hand, an asset to whoever thought they could get something from her for so long this seemed impossible. Freedom, proper and true. And after all the shit she pulled on the road traveling with her to find the kid, Cait thought for sure she'd ditch her on the side and never look back. But now...Not just free, but a future too.

Drawing her arm across her eyes, the few grateful tears smudged up Cait's gauntlets. "Right, if I've got a say in this place, then you need to be listening to me."

Tommy rolled his eyes at the courier, who was trying to slide out of the conversation, "This should be good."

"It is, if'n ya know what's smart. Once we get this place cleaned up, we should tie in with Goodneighbor. Get some proper guards to keep the raiders off our backs. Hancock's good for it, I'm sure, as long as we wet his beak."

"Goodneighbor," Tommy mused, stroking his hairless chin, "that's not half bad."

"No shit," Cait slugged him again and turned to eye up the Combat Zone. It was still a disaster, but she could see a chance of potential in the broken place. "All right, fat arse, let's get to work."


	5. Deacon

A drifter stood on the outskirts of the remains of Covenant. He'd been watching the kid in the postal getup scurry up to every settler racing to fill the abandoned town to ask them their name. After three hours it was getting damn near adorable. Was the mail service even that dedicated before the bombs dropped?

Exhausted, the kid finally stepped to the drifter's wall. He rattled a sheet in his hands, wiped at his sweat stained cheeks, then seemed to finally notice the man beside him. "Excuse me, I'm looking for someone."

"So I gathered," the drifter said, adjusting his sunglasses.

"But I can't seem to find him. The instructions were a bit...uh, vague on this one," the kid looked over the note he'd been clinging to like a fatman.

"Here, let me see," the drifter reached over and grabbed it free before the kid could object. "'For a man named Deacon, though he could be calling himself Drifter, Settler, or Guard.' Not very useful there, eh?"

"I know."

He smiled and continued to read, "'No idea what his face looks like anymore, but he'll be wearing a pair of sunglasses and a stupid hat.'" The drifter paused in his reading to touch the newsboy cap upon his brow, offended on its behalf. "That's not much to go off of." He handed the instructions back.

"There was a list of routes to find him, but it's been impossible," the kid continued. He reached into the bag across his neck and unearthed a nukacola. After saving the cap, the kid drowned his sorrows in sugar.

"Whatcha trying to find this guy for? Can't be that important if all you have to go off of is a few names and sunglasses," the drifter asked, nonchalantly picking at his nails.

"I have to deliver something to him."

"Ah, it wouldn't be a geiger counter, would it?" the drifter perked up.

But the kid's eyes danced across him, confused and a bit concerned his new friend suddenly went mad. "Noo...at least I don't suppose so. It's this..." With one hand the kid yanked out a brown package and dangled it in front of the drifter's face.

"Hm...so you don't know what it is, or who you have to deliver it to? That's a hell of a problem to have," he popped his lips in oblivious thought, watching the caravan drift down the road. The brahman broke into a run to try and keep up with the people supposed to be guarding it, its load dangerously tipping to the side.

The drifter snapped his fingers, drawing the kid's hopeless eyes. "I know, obviously whatever you're carrying, it must mean something to this Dean guy, right?"

"Deacon, and I assume. They have so far."

"So, you open it, show it around, and if anyone reacts to it or shouts something like 'Hey, that's my underwear!' then you found your man." The drifter spoke as if he'd discovered the answers to life, the universe, and all the courier's problems.

"I don't know, that seems..." the kid shifted away, but the drifter yanked the package out of his hands so deftly the courier's fingers hung in the air.

"Here, I'll do it first, you know, so you aren't accused of mail tampering. And then you can show it to the others, parade it about. Someone's got to care. Sound good?"

"That...um, I suppose it's..."

The drifter grinned wider, "Sure it is. Here, there's a trick to these knots and ah!" String and paper both fell away without a tear to them, the drifter taking advantage of some weak point only he could see. Still wearing the same cheeky grin, he pulled off the top of the box and shoved away bits of packing paper. His face fell, every ounce of impudence draining the way addictol clears a person's veins. Cupping the box like a baby, the drifter lifted up a small but thick square of paper. The courier twisted around to see the image of a woman imprinted upon it; She looked more lifelike than the few remaining paintings across the wasteland.

"Barbara..." the drifter whispered. "How could she...?" He snickered even as his face crumpled, tears dribbling down his cheeks below the black shades. "That was the few weeks with Tom combing through the archives. Shit, and just to, so I could..." A shudder rolled across the drifter's spine as he tried to pull back the grief and joy twisting his face. "So, it's a picture of a woman. That could mean a lot of things to people," his words were detached and ephemeral, as uncaring as if it were a bit of trash, but he couldn't take his eyes off the woman's face. "Lost daughter, or run away sister...wife. You should, uh, ask around. You know, see if anyone knows who it is."

"I don't think that's necessary, sir," the courier said, a lump catching in his throat. It had been an emotionally trying job, and he still had half a bag to go.

"No, no," the drifter said struggling to smile, the sunglasses obscuring his pain, "it's got to be special for someone out there. You know. Someone that remembers her, and is nowhere near deserving enough to see her again."

The courier dropped down and picked up his empty bottle for salvage, "I have more packages to deliver. It'll take ages already just to get this done. You could do me a great favor by showing that picture around and seeing if anyone recognizes her."

"Ah," the drifter bobbed his head, "good idea. I mean, I suppose I can help you out. Just cause I don't have much to do right now. But if I can't find whoever it's meant for then, uh, who should I return it to?"

The courier shrugged, "I suppose you'll have to keep it. There's no one left to take it back."

"Oh..." He ran his thumbs across the front of the picture, softly caressing what had once been a warm cheek. "Well, uh, good luck with that pile. Better you than me!" The drifter's cheeky smile returned and he tipped his stupid hat at the courier.


	6. Danse

Two turrets whipped towards the courier's head, the glint of the sun upon their muzzles highlighting his sweaty face. The kid didn't back down the way raiders did, scurrying away to their holes until he hunted them down later. The courier gripped tighter to his little bag and inched closer to the door. Brave; stupid, but brave. From deep in the bunker, fingers dashed across the controls readying to take fire if the civilian attempted to engage hostilities. But he stopped just outside the door, pulled out a piece of paper, and glared at it with furrowed brow.

"Explain your presence here, civilian!" the voice echoed through loudspeaker's just below the turrets.

Leaping like he stepped on a deathclaw's tail, the civilian pinwheeled his hands, his head whipping around for the source of the mysterious voice. "I, uh, um...Is this 'Listening Post Bravo?'"

"State your business." The voice didn't answer his question.

"I'm looking for someone," he squeaked out. "A, uh..." his eyes roamed across the paper, "Paladin Danse?"

"Who do you work for? Are you in league with the Brotherhood? The Railroad? Or some remnant of the Institute?" the turrets whipped to him anew with every question, the last one causing the targeting lasers to deploy. The kid had enough self preservation instincts to yelp and duck down.

"No, no one! I mean, I have a job but it's not with any of them. Oh god, please don't kill me. I swear, I'm just supposed to deliver this to a Danse." Even curled up so compactly his nose smashed against his chest, rendering his words nasally and incoherent, the courier extended a box above his shoulders.

The intercom clicked below his fingers as he tried to zoom the old-tech cameras in on the surrounding cover. Winds shifted the dead grass, but if anyone else was waiting in ambush they were well hidden. "Hold still," Danse ordered. The courier was in no place to argue, his entire body vibrating in terror.

When the door to the listening post flew open, the courier nearly launched the box at it and ran, but the unmistakable clink of turrets honing in on their target froze his muscles. The courier looked up, then up some more at the man inside those old metal suits - his head covered by a leather cap. Danse trained his laser rifle on the kid while keeping an eye out on the terrain.

"What is located inside this receptacle?" he ordered, gesturing at the box.

"I have no idea. I've never had any idea with any of them," the kid said, struggling to rise up to a stance on jellied legs.

"Place it upon the ground, then move two hundred feet away...slowly," Danse ordered, his voice not one to be argued with. Not that the kid was going to try; getting as far away as his legs could take him was his only option for survival.

Bobbing and swaying from terror colliding into panic, the courier dropped the box and stepped backwards, his feet never lifting off the ground. After making it just on the outskirt of the bunker, his shoes digging ruts in the dirt, the courier stopped. While keeping the gun still trained on the civilian, Danse dropped down to a knee and scooped the package into his arms.

"I..." the gun bounced around in his fingers while Danse struggled against the string, "There must be some mechanism to open this."

"You have to untie it first," the courier called, giving him a jolly wave.

Stone eyes snapped up at the kid, but Danse did as instructed, the string wafting away in the wind. Mercifully, he figured out the paper part on his own and broke into the box without anymore commentary from the courier. "What is this?" he spoke aloud while shoving aside wads of useless paper. The courier squeaked again, uncertain how to respond, when a familiar arm mounted computer rolled into view.

Forgetting the courier, the empty box smashed to the ground as Danse scooped the Pip-Boy into his hands. He twisted the piece of vault-tec technology which none but the Brotherhood should own around in his palms, memories stinging through synapses he once considered a brain. "Is this hers?" he whispered, his words softening to a mist. There was that scratch on the outer casing where a mole rat grabbed ahold before Danse blasted its head clean off. And the blob of green paint upon the knob from her attempts to paint the structure in Diamond City. This saw her through every step across the Commonwealth, cataloging each divot in her path. She would never go anywhere without it. Anger severed his servos and he snapped up at the courier, "Explain!"

"I, uh, can't. I don't know what it is, even still." The terrified civilian gripped tighter and tighter to his shirt, as if that could save him. If he was lying, he was as poor at it as that Railroad agent.

Danse softened, the courier reminding him of some of the young scribes before they were properly hardened for missions. "I do," he said, his voice a whisper. "But I do not understand why it was given to me. Surely, she will require it to continue her mission of...oh." She made mention on occasion that her plans may not tie her forever to the Commonwealth, and would inquire from Danse about the makeup of other areas outside this range, but to abandon such a vital piece of technology to him... He wasn't Brotherhood anymore, he wasn't even human. His place in the world was dubious and desultory -- leaving him a danger to those who knew him, and a threat to those he once served.

Shouldering his rifle, Danse twisted the power switch on the Pip-Boy, a maneuver he'd watched her accomplish a thousand times previous. Green light ricocheted upon his face, and a drawing of a tiny man with an oversized head booted up upon the screen. The animation waved up at Danse, then the screen blinked and a series of entries rolled into view. "I anticipated a note or instructions," Danse said, highlighting the first of the listings. It was her notes; she was always inputting them to remember who required an increase in beds, food, or other resources. This one was more detailed than she seemed to require previously. 'Location - Somerville. Situation - Raiders kidnapped father, requiring ransom. Holed up in the Hubris Comics. Possible feral ghoul intervention as well. Suggest Rad-X and throwing in a mini nuke.'

"Ah, these must be her jobs," Danse said, scrolling through the other listings. Some of them had ties to the Minutemen and the settlements she watched over, but most were merely people begging for help from the only source that could provide it. "But, why give them to me?" he asked, glancing up at the courier.

The kid shrugged, unaware of what the man in front of him really was. "Maybe she thought you could handle it. I guess."

Danse laughed at the implication. He was an abomination. Even after she pleaded with him and Elder Maxon that he deserved a chance, that he'd done good and would continue to do good in the world, Danse felt as hollow as a circuit-less turret. He'd hoped that stopping the Institute would bring a sense of belonging, but it only drew forth more questions. The Institute was a menace to the Commonwealth and the world, but they also created him. He felt no loyalty to them, no urge within his programming to report to them, and he cheered with the others over its demise, but the accolades rang sour in what he once thought was his gut. The others deserved the cheers and laurels, not a synth hiding amongst humans even if it was unbeknownst to him. He no longer had a standing in the Brotherhood, the Minutemen were a pathetic assembling of farmers with rotting weapons, and Danse only left the Railroad to their own foolish devices on her orders. What use was he to the world?

His fingers flipped the dial on the Pip-Boy, scrolling up and down through her list of tasks. They seemed endless, the Commonwealth always needing to be saved from itself. He paused in his musings and read through an entry. 'Children orphaned, at least five of them, perhaps more. Hiding out in an old quarry. Slavers attempting to invade their refuge. Require protecting.'

Danse's fist curled up. How could anyone turn their back to such atrocities? To let children suffer without attempting to aid? Someone needed to stop them. He snatched up his rifle, causing the courier to yelp. Danse broke from his own thoughts and nodded once at the boy, "It is all right, citizen. I...thank you for bringing me this."

"Right, good. You're not going to shoot me then?"

"No," Danse shook his head. "But I am going to teach slavers that they have no place in the Commonwealth." Unknotting the belts, Danse slipped the Pip-Boy over the enormous forearm of his armor and set out into the Wasteland.


	7. Curie

"Log three hundred and seventy five. Day fifteen of my reconnaissance research into mating rituals of the indigenous fauna across ze Commonwealth. I have made a most exciting discovery as..." The auditorial recording drifted away as a rustling in the underbrush drew her attention. There was very little of the original flora to provide adequate habitat for animals, but some still attempted to camouflage themselves amongst desiccated trees and even the wreckage of automobiles. She gave a seminar on the preferences of bloatflies to swarm most around high noon due to their natural coloring blending in with the pigments of the grass. It was held in the Dugout Inn at Diamond City where three people attended, two of which seemed to suffer a catatonic state upon their table. Still, it was a rousing success compared to her other symposiums.

Curie decreased the height of her body, automating servos that...no, she was supposed to call them legs. Her legs bent until the knee suckered into the mud, adding to the stains blanketing her lab coat. She attempted to increase magnification upon whatever was rustling in the underbrush by shoving her head deeper into the weeds.

"'ello? If you are a species that is native to ze area I would very much like to speak with you."

"Um," a voice that wasn't hiding in the brush spoke behind her. "I'm probably going to regret asking this, but are you Curie?"

She tried to swivel her third eye stalk around but found it uncooperative. Oh right, humans only came with two placed upon the front of their face plate. A curious design flaw perhaps she could one day improve upon. Placing both hands upon the ground, Curie turned to look up at a human. He appeared to be in that stage between adolescence and adulthood that caused splotchy hair growth upon the lower jaw and an insistence upon not being referred to as a child any longer.

"We, I am Curie. Designation Contagions Vulnerability Robotic Infirmary Engineer."

"Uh, right, it had all that written down here too..." the not-adult human spoke, gesturing to a slip of paper in its pincher.

"You have need of me? A question? Have you brought me a piece of Mirelurk Queen liver?"

"Nooo..." he shook his head vigorously, "no, god I...no! I'm supposed to, um...Can I ask you something?"

Curie's lips perked up in what she considered a display of contentment to ease the subject. Humans preferred to call it a smile. "Naturally, it is how we learn, no?"

His right eye decreased in size by half while the left increased. Gesturing to her cranium, her asked, "Why is there a bucket on your head?"

"Oh," she touched her hat, "because it provides enough adequate protection against ze dangers of the Commonwealth and can also double as storage." To display her findings, she lifted up the bucket revealing a pile of stimpacks stuffed on the top of her head.

"That makes sense, I guess, sort of in a way I'll figure out later."

Curie slipped the bucket back in place and clapped her hands, "Wonderful. It has been a delight speaking with you. I am so glad we could come to an understanding for science." She dropped back down to her knees, trying to prod into the shuffling brush.

The young man reached out and snagged the edge of her lab coat, "No, wait, that's not why I'm here - to ask you about the bucket hat. I'm supposed to give you this." He released his grip to unearth a small package from out of a deflated bag upon his upper torso area.

"You are giving to me a box?" she picked it out of his hands and inspected the design, "Oh, how delightful! I can store some things in it, or -- if I grow weary -- use it as a seat!"

"It's a gift, not from me, I'm just delivering it. You're supposed to open it and see what's inside. You know, like a present." His eyes narrowed again, causing a prickling sensation to rise along the back of her neck.

"Of course, a gift - something given willingly to a person without anticipation of payment." Curie smiled up at him, and after a few beats he tried to return it. "So, I should be opening it then."

"It's what everyone else has done," the man said.

"Ah, yes. Let me see the best way to uncover the secret..." she spoke, twisting the box backwards and forwards, rattling whatever was inside.

The young man reached forward, as if to take it away from her, "There's this string on the outside you have to..." His words faltered as both string and wrapping unraveled. "How did you do that?"

"A simple matter, there was a weak point upon the fifth node where the braid failed to twist into..." Curie swallowed, that same feeling rising in her stomach. She warned her to listen to it, to trust it. 'Not everyone's accepting of synths, Curie. Best to try and blend in for now.' Blinking her orbital sensors rapidly, Curie smiled, "I untied it. And now I...open ze rest of the box to see what is inside?"

He nodded along with her uncertain words as she did just that. Her head cocked to the side, almost banging the bottom of the bucket into the courier's nose. Curie removed a bag full of holotapes and a sheet of repurposed paper. She began to read off the paper uncovering a series of instructions, "'Beneath my old workbench at Sanctuary you'll find a player for these. They contain every ounce of data my Pip-Boy recorded across the Commonwealth as well as the location where I stored all the lab equipment swiped from the Institute. Use it in good health.'"

A coolant line must have ruptured as water dribbled from her eye. An avalanche of emotion percolated inside of her, some grateful and happy, others darker that panged against her synth heart. "Oh, zis is so unexpected. How do I thank her? She gave me so much already, freedom from my vault, 'zis body."

"Your body?" the courier asked, trying to inch away.

But Curie grabbed onto him, her hands pressing the bag of holotapes into his arms as she shook it vigorously, "Thank you ever so much for bringing me this. It is more than I could have hoped for. Perhaps one day I can repay your kindness."

"That's, um, you know, you're welcome. Weird as a day I've had, this could have gone so much worse. At least you didn't try to shoot me."

Curie gasped, "I would never shoot you. The over abundance of violence in 'zis world is heartbreaking."

That drew a greater smile to the courier's face, the glow stirring something hormonal inside Curie's new body. Her own cheeks raised even higher, causing a light rash to break out across the young man's face. As she was about to reach out and take his temperature, the grass below her shook.

"Ah! Wonderful!" Curie wadded the holotapes into her own pack, and dropped to her knees.

"What was that?" the courier asked, rising up on his toes to look over her shoulder.

"It is the animal I have been tracking for three days. I wish to study it."

"Oh? Is it a radstag fawn, or a baby mole rat?"

"No," Curie twisted her head, and smiled back at him, "It is a full grown yao guai."

The feral roar ripped through the grass, revealing a glint of teeth.


	8. Strong

His army watched him, their faces frozen in awe, their necks unable to turn as he paced before them through the structural unsound wreckage of a Par Kingga Rage. "Strong no want cowards. Strong want fighters! Are you fighters?!"

They didn't respond.

"Strong ask if you are fighters! Fight for what is right in world?! Find milk of human kindness then eat all humans!"

Still nothing.

Strong threw his hands up, smacking one against a broken beam. The always bubbling rage boiled over as massive bicep, tricep, and other anatomical things Strong didn't understand ripped the beam from its concrete grave. He spun about, ready to hurl the enemy out of his fort when a puny human jumped at the sight of him.

"Ah! I...oh, let me guess, you're Strong?" the puny human spoke, his fleshy mouth flapping. "After the ghoul, the drifter, and nearly getting ripped apart by a yao guai while a woman asked if I could describe my symptoms for science, I should have expected to find a Super Mutant."

"Ugh!" Strong shook his head to dislodge the human's buzzing. He launched the beam with a flick of his wrist where it landed a few feet away from the human's head. The human flinched, its droning voice dropping away. Strong meant to hit him in the head, but at least the talking stopped. "I, Strong. What you want, human?!"

"I, uh," now the human danced about on its spindly legs as if needing to piss itself. Perhaps it did. Humans did that often around Strong and always down their leg. Very disgusting. "I was asked to...that is-" 

The Super Mutant sighed, rolling his head to the ceiling, "Getting hungry. Strong want to eat. Only see human around for food."

"Here!" the puny human shouted, thrusting a square at him. Strong knew about squares, they sometimes contained useful things to catch meat, could bait traps with what was inside, or catch the meat with the squares, but he preferred nets. Nets were best for holding meat. "This is for you, from a friend I'm guessing. Hoping. Please don't be an enemy."

Strong palmed the box with one hand and raised it to his eye. Below him the human whimpered slightly, as was normal. "Hm...Strong not see any thing in here."

"You have to open it," the puny human reached forward, grubby fingers attempting to take back his box. "Like this and..."

Strong yanked the box away and growled. The puny human shrunk back further inside its clothing. "Sorry, just, you know what. It's yours, do whatever you want with it. Eat it for all I care."

The puny human threw its hands up, but Strong redoubled his efforts in surveying the box. "Ah, Strong see way into box now. Pull on string. Clever."

"Yep, real brain teaser there," the puny human spoke, drawing another glare from Strong. It yelped again, worse than a mole rat. "I mean, open it. With that string. You're way smarter than me."

Strong snorted at the obvious and made quick work of the box. Rather than untie, or even break it, he ripped half of the box off, then slid the chunk around the still taut string. Peering inside the darkness, Strong's eyes lit up at what rested inside. "Ah! I know what is!" Making even quicker work of the rest of the box, Strong unearthed the greatest prize he could ever hope to achieve. "It is the hat!" he shouted, holding it aloft.

"It is?" puny human asked, unable to recognize such brilliance before him.

"Yes! I was told by my great leader that she used it for her power, it told people she was leader of all. Stopped many enemies with it."

"With that?" the puny human continued, eyeing up Strong's gift.

The Super Mutant growled again at him; then laughed so uproariously even the human joined in. "And tiny human wanted Strong to eat it. Human stupid!"

"Human very stupid, and very confused," he said. "This hat of leadership, is it...I mean-"

"It Strong's now! Strong leader. She must think Strong powerful enough for great hat..." the super mutant paused, his paws twisting his gift around. A surprising gentleness welled up in his voice as he spoke, "This mean Strong no see her again. Strong not hear again either. And Strong not eat her."

"Do you eat a lot of...no, don't answer that. I want to sleep sometime in the next ten years," puny human continued to talk.

Strong shook him off. His fingers ran across the great leader's hat, trying to fluff up the ear of the beast's head that flattened in its box. Strong was uncertain where and when she first found it, but she spoke with such confidence while wearing it he knew her words to be true. She explained it was worn by great leaders to inspire their warriors during battles. One 'school' would destroy another and eat the losers for spoil.

Dipping his head down, Strong slipped the hat over his head. It fit almost fully over, the nose and mouth of the beast covering his own, while Strong's lone eye poked out of the hole smashed into the hat across the right half. Strong glowered down at the puny human, his shoulders lifting back as the power of the hat surged through him.

"A super mutant wearing a teddy bear's head. Wasn't expecting that today," puny human continued to speak. But his words did not matter, none of it did. Strong was master now. He need not bother with those tiny things. He had his own followers to inspire to greatness.

"I am leader now!" Strong slapped a hand to his chest, the reverberations shaking the Kingga Rage's foundations. Spinning on his heels, Strong rounded upon his followers - three kickballs and one basketball with faces chalked upon them. "We are not weak. We are strong. Strong is Strong! Strong will find milk of human kindness and be strongest of all!" His followers did not clap or roar, but the strength surged around him as he accepted his place in the world as best leader.

"Well, if that's good, I'll just be heading along. Still got more to deliver and..." the puny human tried to slide away back into the night.

"Human!" Strong pointed a longer at the it, his eye glowering through the hat's eye hole.

"Yes?" it squeaked once more, the leader hat's power clearly overwhelming it.

"You get Strong's thanks," the Super Mutant attempted to give a thumb's up, but left his other finger still pointing.

"Okay, good, I'm glad you like it."

"Strong does. When next we meet, Strong promise to eat you last."


	9. Nick Valentine

Stacks of folders coated his desk like muck through the gutters after a rainstorm in Diamond City. Nick rifled through a couple, all written in Ellie's proper hand. Despite the Commonwealth trying to suck every last drop of blood from people, she took pride in her penmanship - when she didn't have to write it in said borrowed blood.

"The work really piled up while I was out," Nick commented, tossing the first folder aside and diving into the next. "And most of 'em are about people missing."

"Do you think it's related to the Institute?" his assistant asked. She was trying to get the office back into something of a working order after the doors were shut for the few months he wandered the wasteland. Ellie blinked in surprise as she dug a 10 mm pistol out of the filing cabinet followed by a hot plate. Nick chuckled, he knew exactly who left the hot plate behind. She was always gathering the damn things up, then sticking 'em back in strange places. That dame had a fascination with old world tech, which was probably why she suffered him for so long.

"Possibly," Nick sighed, "their destruction blew open holes all across the Commonwealth. No one knows how many pies they had their fingers in, even now."

"And the Mayor!" Ellie plucked at the thread that'd been kicking around Diamond City since he trudged back home. _Can you believe it about McDonough? He was one of them robots in bed with the Institute. No, never!_ Well, someone had known the whole time. Nick had to give it to Piper for getting at least one right.

"Could be even more out there in the shadows waiting to take other people down with 'em," Nick said, punctuating his sentence with a lit cigarette. He didn't know why he kept them around. The old Nick Valentine, the real one, was a three pack a day kinda guy - despite his fiancee trying to talk him out of the habit. This Nick's mechanical lungs only ground funny and stuck for a beat if he tried to inhale, synth parts not programmed to enjoy any kick from the nicotine, but he liked to have a few lit ones sitting in the ash tray. For ambiance, at least.

"Well," Ellie clapped her hands together, "they'll have the best detective in the Commonwealth on their case."

"Careful there, you're liable to give me such a big head my hat won't fit," Nick joked. His assistant smiled and waved her hands dismissively at him, as if he was being facetious. He never told her, not about the real Nick, nor the memories squatting in his brain, the ones he didn't deserve. It was easier to play the liar with Ellie.

A bell jangled on the door and a lost cat wandered in from the rain. This one looked even more soppy than the last, water seeping over the edges of his hat and his coat plastered to a thin frame the Commonwealth would snap like a twig. The kid tried to squeeze water off his hair and hat at the same time, splattering the floor.

"Plannin' on cleanin' that up before you go?" Nick asked.

"Sorry?" his wide eyes snapped up and stared deep into the synth's yellow. Few people lasted more than a second, the willies grabbing hold and shaking 'em good, but this kid held on.

"Don't be a puss," Ellie chastised her boss, moving to rescue the kid. She always did have a soft spot for pathetic creatures. "You must be looking for the detective."

"Depends," the kids eyes dashed from the woman back to the robot rolling a lit cigarette around his flayed fingers, "who's the detective?"

"That'd be me, sport," Nick said.

"I meant your name. I'm looking for a Nick Valentine, the sign on the door indicated..." the kid pointed behind himself to corroborate his story.

"That'd still be me," Nick chuckled, leaning back in the chair. "You sure you're looking to find an old synth?"

He expected the kid to shake his head and dash back out into the rain. Diamond City folks were used to him, but most others from outside would wait until he'd gone to ambush Ellie for help. But the kid sighed, wiping down his hat, "After the day I had with ghouls, and super mutants, and a man in power armor wanting to shoot me from some basement lair, a friendly synth is welcome."

Nick gestured to the chair opposite him, and the kid gladly collapsed into it. "All that in one day? Been traipsing through the commons picking wild flowers?"

Shaking his sopping hair, the kid cracked open a bag across his shoulder and dug into it. "No, least I don't think I did. It's all new to me still. I'm supposed to deliver this to you, Nick Valentine." He held out a box with the edges taped up in military grade duct tape. When that didn't take, someone glued the bottom half of another box on top.

Nick snubbed out his cigarette and picked up the box. Ripping off the adhered top, he called over his shoulder, "Ellie, looks like we got a possible 10-14."

"10-14?" the kid asked as she rattled a pair of tongs out of the umbrella stand.

Ellie smiled, "It means probable delivery of an organ, head, and/or explosive. I'm ready, Nick!" Holding the tongs and shielding her face behind an old power armor helmet, she gave a thumbs up.

"Here we go," Nick's mechanized fingers shredded through the flimsy cardboard exposing neither finger, ear, nor frag mine, but a lone holotape. He picked it up, twisting the cassette towards the light.

"I don't know anything about it," the kid said unasked.

"Didn't think you would," Nick said. "Here, Ellie, slip it into the player."

She picked the tape out of his hands and got the terminal ready while Nick inspected the box. There was little to go off of, the paper and box itself nothing more than scrap and salvage from any old corner of the wastes. Someone didn't want to be found.

"There we go," Ellie said. She prodded a button and the distinct crackle of a tape kicking to life filled the office. Only the whir of the fan blades cut through it.

"Hello, Nick." It was her voice. The one who waltzed into his life by rescuing it. He was supposed to find her son. She never blamed him for the truth of it, of how unfair the Commonwealth could be. But at times, he did it for her. He should have suspected, seen what was coming. When you played with the Institute, everyone lost. Then again, the Institute learned that about her too. "If you're hearing this, then...then you know it's time. You told me once that everything you are is because of a man who lived two hundred years ago. That the other Nick Valentine made you a fraud despite all you accomplished now. I could tell you in so many words how wrong you are, but I thought some other people could do it better..."

A new voice cut over the holotape, masculine with age crackling his voice. "This recording?"

"Is that?" Ellie began, but Nick held a hand up to silence her as he rotated his chair to face the terminal.

"Okay, good. I...it's been a few years. More than a few since Nick rescued me from those damn Gunners. They was about to splatter my brains all over the pavement, but here comes that synth marching up in his funny coat. Nick, if you're hearing this, I just wanted to say thanks. More than thanks. I don't really have the words good, but... We named our first born after you. It's a girl so we call her Nicky, you know. She's going on ten and smart as a whip. She'd never exist if it weren't for you. Thanks."

"Huh," Nick leaned back, his chair bouncing against the desktop. He reached over to eject the tape, but it wasn't finished.

More clicking hissed followed by another voice, this one female, "Oh, you want to talk about Nick Valentine? I never put much thought in the robots you know, but Nick, what he did for me, for all of us. We...we didn't think anyone cared about Aaron's disappearing. The city didn't. The mayor didn't. But Nick, he was who you went to. Who you needed when...even if it didn't go well. He was there for you. He's more human than most people around here."

A cavalcade of voices gushed out of the tape; young, old, male, female, even one ex-sentry bot he forgot about -- all of them with the same message, "If it weren't for this Nick Valentine, we wouldn't exist. We wouldn't have hope."

"Oh, Nick," Ellie sobbed, tears dribbling down her cheeks after the second confession started up. She tried to dab an old dishrag against the torrent, but nothing was stopping 'em.

Nick touched his own cheek, but the Institute never thought to program tears into his old model. "Glad I got you here to do the crying for me," he joked to his assistant. She smiled at him even through the red blotches covering her eyes and cheeks. Maybe it was a trick of his programming, or something of the old Nick still buried inside his data banks, but as corny as it sounded this synth felt his soul stir.

The tape ended with a pair of kids singing some silly song to thank their Uncle Nicky for stopping the bad men. Crackling and hissing dropped out, the terminal falling silent. He ejected the tape and twisted it around. There were no markings on it, no sign of how many hours, how many miles, how many tears and bribes she had to give to create this. And he'd never know the number now. The old synth's eyes closed as he held the tape close to where a heart should be. His own coolant system piped below it, and he could swear it swelled a bit in pride and something else.

Nick looked over at the courier and found the kid's face crumpled about to tears as well, "You okay there?"

"I've been carrying these things, things I don't understand, to some of the scariest people across the Commonwealth. People who are about to crack open my skull for fun. But then they open the boxes and...and they're reduced down to tears and thanks. From terrifying monster to blubbering baby with a snap. What is all this?"

Nick had to chuckle at her resourcefulness. She had legions at her command, but for this last job she picked someone who had no idea who he was even working for. "It's a goodbye of sorts from someone we knew, someone who brought us together. We might talk a big game, especially the ghoul you mentioned, but deep down, I guess we're all softies where it counts."

The kid's sodden head rolled in an uncertain nod. It was hard to walk the wastes and not be changed, almost impossible when you crossed paths with someone like her.

Nick eased forward to catch the kid's eye, "How many more deliveries you got?"

"Just one," he said. "Should be easy too. Not sure what I'll do after that. I used to be with a caravan but it was destroyed by..." a tell tale shudder followed up his spine. Could be anything in the wasteland that took it out from raiders to deathclaws, but the haunted look was the same. "Don't really have much of anywhere to go after this. Still, I should probably get at it." Despite his words the kid seemed reluctant to leave, as if he wasn't afraid but didn't want it to end.

"Well," Nick smiled and lit a fresh cigarette to place in the ashtray. "When you've finished and don't have any more jobs, I could always use a runner of sorts."

"Really? I wouldn't want to impose, or..."

Nick laid the holotape out on his desk and grinned at the kid, "My door's always open."


	10. Piper

          A month has passed since Mayor McDonough was discovered  
          to be a synth working with the Institute -- much to the shock  
          of all the residents of Diamond City but one intelligent reporter.

Piper picked up her half empty Nukacola bottle and pounded back the rest of the old world drink. Wiping sticky liquid off her lips with the back of her hand, she deleted the 'but' and everything after. Saying 'I told you so' while fun, could only get more doors slammed in her face, and she already had so many. 

          Despite the more than ample time, the council has yet to move  
          on selecting an interim mayor or even calling for the beginning  
          of an election. Why are they trying to impede the will of the city?  
          Could more of the council be in league with the now defunct Institute?

Defunct -- that was a fancy way of saying blown to smithereens. Everyone heard the explosion, billowing smoke visible from the crater throughout the Commonwealth. Piper wished she'd been there next to her when she pushed the button. She was less than forthcoming about what all happened in the Institute, refusing to give an official statement. Then she went and threw herself over the Railroad, burying them behind even more secrets. Sure, sure, escaped synths were in danger but what about the truth? Why didn't anyone care about that anymore?

A fist pounded at the door, and Piper scooted her chair away. "Nat!" she shouted through the tiny office.

"What?!" her sister screamed back.

"There's someone at the door. Go answer it."

Nat threw down a stack of old papers, the pile smashing against the broken floorboards, and folded her arms. "Sorry, didn't realize you busted both your legs and couldn't move. Of course, I'll be the one answering the door seeing as how you're laying there on your death bed."

"Don't be such a smart ass," Piper chided, turning back to her article. She needed to get it out the door before the morning, but her muse wouldn't take. Even staring at the blank black screen wasn't helping, the flashing green bar digging deeper into her eyes. Her fingers ran under the desk, searching for a new distraction when they bumped into something crossing underneath the wood. It stuck up off the drawer hinge, pointing towards the wall. Piper mused to herself, "What's the angle here?"

"Hey!" Nat shouted from the door, her voice echoing even above the pounding rain. "It's some guy. And he's here for you!"

"Well, not here for her exactly, I..."

"Are you gonna get your butt up or do I have to do everything around here?" Nat continued.

Piper clicked out of her article, barely past a paragraph, and rose from her desk. "Yeah, you're so abused," she rolled her eyes as Nat scampered away from the door. But her sister didn't vanish up the stairs, she clung around the corner to watch grubby fingers grubbing up the already grubby walls. Piper needed a break, but the truth waited for no one.

The visitor stood stock still in the doorway despite more rain drenching his already waterlogged skin. "You can come in, you know. Get out of the rain, anyway," Piper said, waving him in deeper.

He bobbed his head, dripping water across the stoop, and entered. "After the day I've had I...presuming seemed unwise."

"So, you were looking for me? Is the council finally gonna see me? Or are you with the Railroad? That faction of Brotherhood sniffing around the edge of the Commonwealth? Oh, did you get my request to interview a member of the Gunners for my 'Death in the Commons' series?"

"I..." the kid blinked through every one of her questions, then reached into his bag. He held a thin scrap of a box, barely bigger than a folder. "This is yours."

"Mine?"

"I don't know who it's from, but she thought you would. Please open it without killing, trying to kill, eating, or attempting to eat me. Thank you." After finishing his diatribe the kid exhaled, his cheeks sucking in from the effort.

Piper eyed him up, her hand on the package, "Are ya finished?"

"I hope so," the kid said, releasing his grip.

She slit the box open and yanked out a handful of papers. "What's the big idea? This is 'A View From the Vault," Piper said, shaking them in his face, "I've got another two dozen in back, I don't need anymore." She attempted to return them, twisting the stack around to slip into the box when handwriting on the back of the paper caught her eye. While the kid and Nat looked on, Piper dug into it, reading each line, pausing, then having to go back to make certain it was all real.

"Oh...oh, Blue," she sighed while turning over the last of the pages. "Nat! Stop the presses!"

"I hadn't even started 'em yet," Nat pointed out.

"We're staying up all night to run this!" Piper shouted, "Quick, get to the terminal and type this out."

Nat sighed another " _Fine_ " as she stomped towards the desk and collapsed in the chair. "Well..."

Piper cleared her throat and read what felt like the last confession of her friend.

 

"An Interview With The Woman Who Destroyed The Institute

Many of you know me, perhaps not by name, or by face. You may not even recognize me at a glance, but I have touched more lives than I thought possible. For the past year I've been a customer, a voice, a shoulder, a rescuer, a fixer, a healer, a hero, and a killer. I began as a stranger in the Commonwealth, and yet it was my home in more ways than I could properly explain. This was not the world I was promised, the pain I expected to endure, but life has a way of not following plans.

The Institute took everything from me; they killed my husband, they yanked my son out of his lifeless arms. I lost my family because of them. It is a good enough reason to want to destroy them. A reason so many other people share across the Commonwealth, and perhaps beyond. They thought the surface world was beyond redemption, that there was no compassion, no kindness left. No hope. But they were wrong.

When I set out on my journey to try and save my child, I was adrift and alone. Everyone I'd ever known was dead, the world torn apart and built into something obscene. This unknown terrified me. But others who heard my plight gave of themselves to help me, to save me. Humans, synths, ghouls, super mutants - all walks of life, all willing to risk their own lives for my sake. There was tenacity in the reporter who shared my story. Compassion in the synth that chased down a deadly mercenary to find my boy. Courage in the brother who risked his position for my sake. Sacrifice in the ghoul willing to step back from his duties and travel at my side. Resilience in the fighter that put aside all she knew to travel with a stranger. Trust from the mercenary who had no reason to give it. Bravery in the last Minuteman, unwilling to go gently into the void. An unexpected kindness in a most surprising and large place. Intelligence from a woman who most would declare obsolete. Humility wrapped in a lie by a man with an ever changing face. And throughout it all, from every voice crying for the truth, every foot canvassing the Commonwealth beside me, and every arm beating back the night with me was hope.

The Institute took my family and changed the course of my life, but in a cold turn of events the Institute was also my family. When I look out across the hole where the CIT ruins once stood my heart leadens, my veins weaken. In the end it was my choice, one not many people get in this cruel world. If faced with it again I would do the same, but that certainty does not change the loss or blame I will forever bear.

I've altered the future of the Commonwealth, set it free to follow it's own path, but in doing so I made myself a target: from remnants of the Institute and the Brotherhood. Them and others who crossed my path and did not win want not just my head, but those closest to me. I will not let them risk their lives for my sake. For this reason I have decided it is time I depart. But knowthis Commonwealth -- my home for longer than any of you could imagine -- I do not leave you alone. You are still surrounded by compassion, kindness, sacrifice, tenacity, courage, resilience, trust, bravery, intelligence, and humility. The people who remain, the people gifted with a new lot in life, these are your brothers, your sisters - they are your hope. Together, I know you can build this land into something great; perhaps even better than what I knew over two hundred years ago.

 

Yours in good health

 _The No Longer Sole Survivor_ "

 

Piper didn't know how she managed to keep her voice steady reading aloud Blue pouring her heart out, but she heard a sniffle beside her and turned to watch the delivery kid break down. His whole face crumpled inward as salty tears streaked through the rain.

"I. Had. No. Idea. That's. Who. That. Was," he huffed against every word, struggling to breathe.

"Hey, hey, kid, you okay in there?"

"All this, from bullets and maniacs living in shacks and raiders and yao guai! I thought it was worthless. Stupid. But..."

Piper draped a hand around the kid's shoulders, pulling him into a half hug, "Shh...shh...it's okay. Blue does that to people. Hell if I know how, but you come away feeling broken into a million pieces and rebuilt into something better."

"I..." the courier paused, then mentally ticked back over all those trials he mentioned earlier, his lips mouthing the list. He shook his head, unable to believe the things he accomplished in himself. "Did she, did she really do all of that?"

Piper snorted, "That and so much more. Speaking of...Nat? Did you get all that?"

"Yeah, yeah, sending it to the press now," her sister intoned, her soul stone the way only a teenager could be. She jabbed at a key with her finger and the printing press croaked to life.

Piper motioned to her couch and sat next to the kid still drenched from head to toe. Yanking out a towel and tossing it to him, she smiled, "You wanna hear the whole story? It's even crazier than you could imagine."

The courier wiped at his hair with the towel and nodded. "Yeah, tell me everything."

 

***

 

Dogmeat launched himself out of the Vertibird and onto the scrub brush the moment the landing gear struck. She sighed, gathering up the last of her gear and followed after her hyper dog. He hadn't been happy the hours they were in the air, his whimper evident above the roar of the craft. Tossing the first bag out onto the dirt, she turned around to catch a head tipping around from the cockpit.

"That went, went a lot better than the first time. We were only upside down for a few seconds. And spun out once. Not bad."

She smiled, "You did an excellent job, Tom. Thank you."

"Yeah, sure, no problem. Right? I mean, why have one of these babies if you can't take it out for a little vacation?!"

"Yes..." She hadn't told him that lie, but the assumption made some sense given her obtuse instructions. "Are you going to tell Desdemona about this? About where I went?"

"Nah, nah, she's got enough work with all those synths wandering through the Commonwealth like lost baby brahman with no mommy to guide 'em. Good time for you to be heading out. It'll be weeks before the railroad notices." He smiled, the jerk of his always rotating head slowing.

She dipped her head down and smiled again, "Thank you, for all of this."

Grabbing up the last bag, she slotted her favorite gun across her shoulder and hopped out of the Vertibird. Gnarled trees pocked the landscape - a sight almost as familiar as the one she left in the east, but something strange moved further in the distance. A bird with three pairs of wings hopped from rock to rock, its head shaped more like a crocodile's which it bashed into the sand to gobble up whatever fled the attack.

Turning away from the sight, she held a hand into the craft and called out, "Shaun, it's safe!"

Her boy poked his head out, his eyes wide from the wonders they'd witnessed so high above the ground now right in front of them. Shaun gripped her hand, his own warm against her palm. She knew she could only live with herself if she considered him her son. But questions still hung in the air about her boy. Would he age and grow? Or would he remain 10 years old even as she limped closer to the grave she skipped past? She had no way of knowing. People here might grow suspicious, might ask questions of the old woman with a young boy tagging along but the Commonwealth knew the woman who walked out of a vault in search for her son. They painted the woman who destroyed the synth Institute and Prydwen and weren't about to let her settle down. Here, with no pip-boy she was just another mother scrounging to find a place for her son.

Smiling at him, she pulled him from the vertibird, his mismatched shoes scurrying through the scrub brush. She knew what this land was called before the war, but it hardly mattered now. Somewhere there were more factions, more fights, and more people who needed help.

"Look, Mom," Shaun cried, pointing in the distance, "Dogmeat's found something!"

"That dog's always found something," she sighed, watching her trusty companion unearth a tin of cram and a bottle of Isocola. She hadn't seen one of those in...well, it was longer than it should be. Grabbing tighter to Shaun's hand, she pulled her little family away from the vertibird. They watched it climb into the orange sky, the black paint dispersing an encroaching fog as it flew back to the Commonwealth. She trusted Tom's word, but there were people looking for her, people who wouldn't take a few well meaning lies for answers. "Come on, kiddo. We'd better find shelter before night comes. I think there's a little town up ahead."

"Do you think they're friendly?" Shaun asked, lugging up his own bag, not that he needed much. A change of clothes and bits of an old alarm clock and phone were all he packed.

"We'll have to see," she said, then whistled for Dogmeat. He unearthed his head from one of the three-winged bird's holes, his tongue lolling with a pant. Another whistle and Dogmeat ran ahead of them; one of the best forwards scouts she had.

"Mom," Shaun spoke again. "What do you think is out there?"

The last rays of the sun drifted towards the horizon painting it the most vibrant orange she'd ever seen. Two hundred years, a nuclear annihilation, and still the world could offer up a beautiful sunset. Glancing down at her son she smiled, "Let's find out."


End file.
